


Cut to the Quick

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Disfigurement, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian had always taken pride in his appearance, so when a band of Venatori capture him and scar his face, Dorian begins to doubt his worth and fears what Bull will think of him now that he isn't one of the pretty ones any more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Kink Meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53991661#t53991661 
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Dichotomous_Dragon for being a rad beta and coming up with titles for me. <3

The Emerald Graves were a horrid expanse of wilderness and wildlife and Venatori. Dorian loathed all of it, but at least it meant getting a chance to leave his corrupt countrymen splattered red across all the endless green. It was the impossible amount of bugs swarming around the fire every night and biting at his exposed shoulder that was truly driving Dorian mad. It was his turn for watch, the forest around them filled with the hum of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl thrown into the mix. The sound of Sera’s snoring carried from the tents, and, if all the rustling of cloth was any indication, it seemed like Blackwall couldn’t find a comfortable position to sleep in. 

Dorian let out a sigh, stretching his legs towards the fire, trying to keep his mind busy to avoid getting lulled into sleep by the drone of the Graves. It was surprising how cool the humid forest grew at night, especially in the shaded recesses of the forest. Shivering, he pulled the atrociously colored, knit blanket Bull insisted he take with him closer around his shoulders. It helped to create a barrier for his bare skin against both the cold and the relentless, attacking insects. Dorian smiled a little to himself, thinking of the Bull, wondering if the man was still drinking in the tavern with his men at this time of night, or if he had retreated to his room for the night. He thought fondly of Bull’s nightly rituals - shucking off his boots and setting them in their spot near the door, letting Dorian remove his clothing but making sure they were neatly set out in case they needed to get dressed and leave in a hurry, pressing kisses into Dorian’s skin before they sunk into the mattress together…

Abruptly, all the ambient sound of the forest stopped behind the steady rasp of Sera’s snoring. Dorian went immediately tense - a silent forest was never a good sign. He had learned that quickly when he fled south, having a bit of a crash course in survival along the way, remembering a time when the only sign of approaching slavers was the fact that the previously chirping birds fell quiet. 

Slowly, Dorian rose to his feet, trying to play it off like he needed to stretch his legs as he paced closer to the tents. The darkness was so deep that he hadn't a clue where any would-be attackers could be hiding, so he instead waited to grab his staff, trying pretend that he still hasn't noticed the sudden stillness. When the whiz of an arrow narrowly missed his ear, he quickly hit the dirt. From his spot on the forest floor, he snatched up his stave before edging towards the tents.

“We’re under attack!” Dorian called out, and Sera’s snoring ended in a indelicate snort. A flaming arrow zinged through the tent he and Blackwall were meant to share, flames springing to life. Dorian waved his arm to cause frost to creep across the fabric, causing it to sag under the added weight, “A little help, if you would!” 

Blackwall stumbled from his tent first, armor haphazardly put on, some parts buckled wrong or not at all. As he blinked around blearily, it was obvious he was still trying to to clear the fog of sleep away. Another arrow dinged against the metal besagew, the rigidity of which kept the projectile from burrowing into his ribs. At that, adrenaline had Blackwall snapping to attention, searching for the shapes of their attackers amongst the trees.

“Show yourselves!” he barked. It’d be a suicide mission to dive into the dark woods alone, and Blackwall must have hoped goading the attackers on might get a few to reveal themselves as Dorian, behind him, dragged the others out of their tent. “Cowards!”

Something was yelled back in Tevene. The Venatori, then. 

Once Sera and the Inquisitor emerged from their tent, Blackwall and Adaar dashed into the woods. Dorian and Sera moved away from the fire, slinking into the shadows around camp. Another thing Dorian learned during his crash course on survival — how to be invisible. It was a little harder for Sera, who was still learning the ways of survival outside the city. Her eyes glowed eerily in the dark as she pulled back her bow and aimed at figures moving between shapes of trees. 

Dorian knew being the source of light would only bring more attention to him, but he couldn’t leave Blackwall and Adaar fighting out in the darkness. A sacrifice to his own well-being was worth the safety of his friends. He cracked the end of his staff into the ground, eerie greenish light like veilfire brightening a great stretch of area around them. Almost immediately, there was someone on him, spitting insults in Tevene that might have hurt, had they not come from someone Dorian saw as a disease corrupting Thedas. 

Lightning charged at the end of his staff, Dorian swung hard, the orb smacking into their face, purple sizzling across their skin. They fell after a spray of blood and the crunch of breaking bone, and Dorian sent a Walking Bomb into their chest in case they get up again. He edged away from the body on the ground, moving carefully among the tangle of vines and roots. Waving his hands, he cast glowing balls of light into the air, now able to see Blackwall and Adaar as they trade blows with Venatori. He left Sera in the darkness, wherever she was, knowing she could see just fine. Occasionally, he saw the flash of her eyes in the dark, and prayed to the Maker none of the Venatori were smart enough to shoot between the glowing reflections. When Dorian continued to cast new orbs of light, a few hisses of pain cut through the darkness, and Dorian was able to pick off a few spellcasters with ease before they can recover from the bright light. 

He felt the pull of magic a moment before his Walking Bomb went off, making him half-turn towards the man now exploding into a mess of blood and body parts. It caught another Venatori trying to creep up on him, another blast spraying crimson in a wide arch, some of it reaching Dorian’s robes. He laughed triumphantly, thanking his intuition. 

It started to seem that the fight was dying down, since he could spot the Inquisitor darting to-and-fro, searching for another enemy. Blackwall was putting his sword through someone’s neck, but there was no one else waiting in line to be killed. When Dorian found a man struggling to his feet some ways away, he called forth a burst of flame to tear through their chest, and that was that. 

“We done then, yeah?” Sera called out from whatever hiding spot she was currently in. Dorian breathed out a relieved breath that she was still in one piece.

“Believe so,” the Inquisitor agreed, heading back towards the tents. There was only the one now, and Dorian guessed that no one is going to be in the mood to get a second one set up at this point. The tents could fit all three of whoever wasn’t on watch, as long as someone didn’t mind Sera’s elbow in their ribs or Blackwall’s beard tickling their shoulder.

Dorian let the dimming lights begin to flicker from existence, but kept the tip of his staff lit. He definitely did not feel like stumbling ungracefully through the darkness towards the glow of the fire. Before he could get far, pain cut into his shoulder, white hot. He made a startled, pained yell, staff clattering to the earth as the injured arm became a dead weight. The green light remained for a few moments, making the blood trickling down his arm look eerie before it flickered out.

“Dorian!” Adaar shouted, the sound of boots hurrying his way. His comrades’ hurried movements drowned out the sound of someone creeping up behind him, and it was almost too-late to do anything by the time he noticed. Fire exploded from his hands, sending the man about to leap on him backwards, screaming and flaming. Dorian gave a triumphant noise, snapping off the end of the arrow in his shoulder before stooping down to grab his staff. Then, something collided hard with his back, wrenching the air from his lungs and making the pain in his shoulder flare anew. 

Gasping in pain, Dorian hit the ground hard. There were knees digging into his back, pressing him down into the earth. He cried out when one of the knees shifted, jostling his shoulder. The pain made it hard to focus on forming a spell, but electricity was rippling across his body on instinct alone. The others were shouting, swords clashing again. Dorian struggled as best he could, despite being winded with roots and rocks digging into his front and being thoroughly pinned to the earth. He would not go out without a fight, and did not like the idea of being bested by scum from his homeland. 

Rough hands grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back. Dorian yelled out again, surprised by how much it hurt, his neck yanked back at an unnatural angle. He enjoyed hair pulling in bed, but never realized how efficient of a tactic it was to down someone on the battlefield. He willed the electricity still dancing on his skin to flare, and it did, but the man only chuckled. 

Everything was too muddled by pain and pressure. Dorian tried to focus on the points of contact between himself and his attacker. Hurriedly mumbling words, he felt the heat of flames licking against the man’s knees. Cold metal touched Dorian’s throat, and he swallowed hard, panic bubbling. It would be so easy for the Venatori to drag a blade against his skin right now, to spill his blood red against the earth, and for that to be the last of Dorian Pavus. Knowing it was a gamble, Dorian made the flames burn brighter, holding true to his stance of not going out without a fight.

Something clicked into place around his neck, pinching some of his skin as the Venatori fumbled with the contraption, and then Dorian felt his magic fail him. It made him feel wrung dry, empty and exhausted, head growing more foggy. Blood trickled from his nose, what must be the result of actively casting while the collar was set into place, and a strangled noise broke free from his lips. It had been years since his father had placed a collar around his neck, but Dorian had never forgotten the weight of it, how trapped in his own body he had felt. He was almost thankful when something collided with his head and it all went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where shit goes down. Blood and violence and name-calling.

Dorian blinked back to consciousness sometime later. It was still dark, which was disorienting because now he wasn’t sure if it was moments later, or days. There was still blood caked and dried on the side of his face, in his hair, and he choked back a pained moan when he tried to sit up. Pain shot down his arm - from the arrow, he remembered blearily. A thundering headache drummed between his ears, and even the pale light of a distant fire hurt. He found that his hands were tied behind his back when he shifted, could feel the immense weight of the collar sitting around his neck. His breath shortened to quick, panicked gasps.

“You’re awake,” someone grunted in Tevene nearby. He had missed them until now, and he tried his best to keep from startling too much.

Dorian squinted at them, trying to get his vision to settle, trying not to let his terror get the best of him, “Seems that way.”

Honestly, he was surprised he wasn’t completely hogtied and gagged. Then again, the blow to his head seemed pretty rough and the collar prevented him from being much of a threat. It took some effort to get there, maneuvering with his injured shoulder, but he made it up to his knees. It wasn’t the best position to be in, with the man moving closer to loom in Dorian’s space, but it was better than laying vulnerable on the ground.

“Been worried the pretty boy couldn’t take a hit,” the man growled out, taking another step into Dorian’s space.

Dorian’s scoff was a mixture of disapproval and pain, which only made the Venatori chuckle at him.

“I am more than a pretty face, I’ll have you know,” Dorian grit out, “Where are the others?”

The man considered him for a moment, before replying, “Not here. I’m sure they’ll be coming for you, and we’ll finish that savage Herald of yours then.” It was a relief to know they weren’t dead, weren’t captured like he was. Dorian knew how cruel and vicious the Venatori were, and while he was fearful what they had planned for him, was a small mixed blessing that he would have to go through it alone.

Dorian laughed, trying to hide his fear, but the forced sound made his vision spin and his head throb, “I’ll be happy to see her crush your skull. It didn’t work the first time, what makes you think it’ll go any better now?”

“We’ve got you, now, and we know how much those oxen seem to like you. You’ll be of use yet, traitor.”

Dorian’s stomach did a flip. He had hoped these Venatori were as stupid as the other lots had been, hoped they didn’t have enough brains have an effective trap already worked out for when Adaar and the others would inevitably make a rescue attempt. He cursed them all in his head, knowing Adaar was unwavering in her loyalty and need to protect those she cared about, and that Sera was just as stubborn. Even Blackwall had a streak of loyalty, and Dorian knew he’d be willing to take the risk, even though he and Dorian weren’t exactly friends. He could never live with it if they were hurt on account of him, thought he supposed the Venatori would do him the favor of ending his life if it came to all that.

“I’m not the one ruining our country,” Dorian hissed back, “You’re the short-sighted cretins rotting Tevinter from the inside out.”

“You want to rethink what you’re saying?” His guard stepped full into Dorian’s space then, cracking his knuckles threateningly and making Dorian lean back to look up at him. Dorian would not give into to cheap scare tactics.

“No, not in the least. It’s all quite true.”

The blow across his face was quick and hard. Nothing broke, but pain shot up Dorian’s jaw and into his head. He was left gasping, slumping back over. The man called to the others closer to the fire, and there was the sound of many boots approaching. If Dorian was more coherent, he might have been able to figure out just how many of them there were, but his head was still swimming from both of the blows his captors had been kind enough to deal him.. Dorian vowed to himself not to talk - other than to properly insult the group. He would rather be killed than give away anything about the few friends he had ever truly earned during his life.

“The whore is awake.”

Ah, so he was still notorious in Tevinter for his past. Good to know.

“You look good collared, like one of those Qunari mages,” the man who drew up before Dorian drawled, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his face. He was dressed in a Magister’s battle robes and looked rather young, but Dorian didn’t recognize him. Idly, he wondered who died to give the boy a seat in the Magisterium, or if the Venatori were stooping to offering such positions to young, talented recruits to get their alliance. “You’ve really gotten chummy with those brutes, haven’t you? Friends with the savage Inquisitor and letting yourself get fucked by that big one. What do you think that ox of yours would say, seeing you like this?”

“I don’t think these are the type of collars he prefers,” Dorian smiled, too-sweet, and the man’s expression flickered into one of disgust. He felt triumphant — he would not stand for them speaking badly about Adaar or the Iron Bull, knowing they were both better people than his countrymen could ever hope to be.

“You’re a right disappointment to the Imperium.”

“I do try my best.”

A fist collided with his jaw again, snapping his head to the side. Dorian spat out blood, but managed to keep his posture this time, his defiance.

“Think he’ll still like you if we bust that pretty face of yours?”

They swiped a thumb across his lips, smearing the blood from his split lip along his cheek. Dorian shuddered slightly, at both the words and the touch. A spike of fear cut through his chest, unsure of what the Venatori had planned for him, unsure of exactly where he and Bull stood in their … relationship. There had been messy confessions from them both before, during, and after sex, but that didn’t really mean anything. People said all sorts of things in the heat of the moment, as Dorian was well familiar with, but would never say the same in the light of day. He shook those thoughts away quickly, knowing it wasn’t something to be worried about now, and he spat a gob of bloody spit onto the man’s face.

The man jerked back slightly, quickly wiping the spit from his face, “You’re sure making this hard on yourself.”

“Piss off,” Dorian growled.

“Teach him a lesson, boys,” the man backed off, letting the other Venatori crowd in around Dorian.

They were more than happy to lay into him, spitting insults while they landed blow after blow to his face and ribs and groin. Before long, Dorian was coughing up blood and yelling, unable to keep the screams pent up neatly behind his clenched teeth. The Magister gave them a sign to stop, and they backed away obediently, leaving Dorian squirming in pain in the dirt.

“That all?” Dorian questioned once he got his voice back. Swiftly, there was a hand in his hair, yanking him upright. He snapped his teeth shut to keep the yelp in his throat, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction, despite having yelled himself hoarse a moment ago. The Magister nodded towards Dorian’s maimed shoulder, and someone stepped forward to press their finger into the wound. Dorian screamed, and then could feel something pressing against the inside of his cheek.

“What do you think, Dorian? Should I wreck that pretty face of yours?” the man asked, pressing the blade in Dorian’s mouth more firmly against his cheek.  
Dorian’s gaze flickered between the man’s hand and his eyes for a moment, and Dorian felt scared. He feared the pain as much as the aftermath, of having his good looks tarnished by an ugly scar that would be impossible to hide. Even when his life had fallen apart, when he was broke and homeless and wandering the Fereldan countryside, there was something reassuring about having good looks on his side. Magic tried to flare inside him on instinct, but it only made him feel worse, head pounding and veins burning, empty and dry.

The knife on the inside of his mouth was cold, biting into his cheek. His mouth already tasted of iron from the sharp steel and the beating. He wouldn’t beg, he would cry, he wouldn’t plead, he told himself. Instead, he held the man’s gaze, fire burning in his eyes, and he stayed very still. Then, there was a swift tug of the knife and pain burned through his jaw, tearing and raw, spraying blood. The scream that escaped his mouth only made it worse, made the fresh wound pull and burn, and then he was spluttering on his own blood. The group around him laughed, sharp and cruel, as blood streamed heavily down his face, wet on his neck and his bare shoulder. Dorian’s eyes went wide and he tried to scramble backwards, away from the flashing blade already stained in his blood.

“Let’s make the other side match,” the Magister pulled his hair roughly, dragging him forward again.

“No, no, please,” Dorian broke, voice garbled from the wound and the blood, stomach doing flips like he was out in the middle of the sea again. He needed to throw up, swallowed down vomit in his throat when it began to rise, because he knew that would only make things worse.

“Not so pretty and perfect anymore, no? Not so big,” the man’s nails dug into his scalp, “Beg, and maybe I’ll change my mind.”

Dorian does not believe him, but at this point, he was desperate and in pain. There was so much blood, his face ruined, and he doesn’t want it to get worse. He was already feeling dizzy, from the blood loss and the shock and all the thoughts buzzing through his head about how ugly he must look now, about how the other won’t recognize him when they attempt a rescue, about how Bull might look at him if he ever makes it home again.

“Please, don’t. Please, I —” he cut himself off, because he couldn’t think of anything he had to offer. He would never give away his only friends, would rather this than disappointing Adaar and Sera and Bull, “Just… just please, don’t. Please.” It was coming out in broken sobs and hiccups, pain searing across his cheek with each word.

The man hummed, like he was thinking, even as he moved the knife towards Dorian’s mouth. It was all for show, Dorian knew it, but Dorian kept babbling broken pleas. Dorian strained against his hold, the other Venatori snickering at him, but it only made his vision go sideways. Clenching his teeth and lips together as tightly as he could manage wouldn’t stop the man, who traced the open wound in Dorian’s face with the tip of the knife. A gasp was pulled from Dorian, and the Venatori were a chorus of laughter again. Tears were streaming down Dorian’s cheeks, salt burning the jagged cut.

“How ugly you look now,” the man growled, giving another pull of the knife without cutting, “So weak. Sobbing like a child, that pretty of your face not so pretty anymore.”

A pained noise sounded in the back of Dorian’s throat. The man laughed, sharp and cold, and Dorian squeezed his eyes closed, knowing what was next. The blade jerked roughly, slicing through skin, and a sob wracked Dorian as he fell forward, the hold on his hair gone. Blood pooled on the ground below him, the small stream from his mouth steady and worrying.

“Don’t think that savage of yours will be able to bare the sight of you after this. Won’t want to fuck a hideous thing like you.”

Dorian broke down completely, sobbing into the dirt, cries wracking his body and pulling at his wounds. He was sure he was only making them worse, but he didn’t know how to stop the tears from flowing. Bull was always telling him that he was beautiful, how smooth and flawless his skin was, running his calloused thumb against his cheek. Now, all those things would be untrue, if ever Dorian got to see the other man again. He clenched his jaw shut, making strangled noises behind his teeth was he tried not to rip his cheeks the rest of the way to his ears. He wondered if it was all for nothing, if he would survive this only to be killed during the impending rescue mission, and the thought of letting himself bleed out crossed his mind. He couldn’t do that to the others, as much as he didn’t want to be scene like this. Adaar arriving to only find Dorian already dead would be a devastating blow, and that kept Dorian struggling, clinging to consciousness and reason.

“Leave him for a bit,” the Magister ordered, turning away. The Venatori had grown quiet, starting to look green and uncomfortable. Time trickled forward, darkness on the edge of Dorian’s vision, pain encompassing. The will to keep fighting left him again as his consciousness faded.

Nothing mattered anymore. He was going to bleed out, most likely, all the Venatori edging away from him as he laid down in a growing pool of his own blood. It didn’t matter. The Bull wasn’t going to want him like this, an ugly grin cut into his face. Bull had always told him how pretty he was, from the first meeting in Redcliffe, and Dorian knew how much he liked pretty things. His sobs died down to hiccups, not having the energy to keep crying. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed before someone came over, his vision dimming steadily by that point.

“Drink,” they ordered, pressing a vial of something to his mouth. Dorian jerked away, some of the potion dribbling down his lips, and the person let out a frustrated noise, “Drink, you idiot, or you’ll die.”

Dorian didn’t have the strength to make an attempt at sitting up. They growled at him, tugging his head back until Dorian let his mouth fall open. The potion was thick and strong-tasting, and it only took a few moments for his wounds to begin to draw together. For a brief, wonderful moment, he wondered if the marks will heal completely with the potion, before the person pulled the rest of the jar away. They gave him enough for the bleeding to stop, for the open wounds to become raw, jagged lines permanently drawn across his face.


	3. Chapter 3

They stowed him away in a tent most of the time. Dorian lost all of his fight, curling in on himself, refusing food and water until they forced it down his throat. They seemed to realized that if the Inquisitor showed up and Dorian was dead, they were going to be worse off, so they kept him alive, despite Dorian’s unwillingness to participate in the efforts. Days bled together, Dorian fading in and out of consciousness whenever the Fade pulled at him. He didn’t dream much, the pain keeping him from receding too deeply into the depths of slumber. He thought often of Bull, memories of Bull’s warmth and safety, until the warm images were replaced by thoughts of disgust or pity flickering across his face upon seeing Dorian. Each time it happened, the resulting flood of emotion brought up the food they had forced him to eat. They’d curse at him for making a mess, but he no longer cared at this point. 

The Bull always picked the pretty ones to take to bed - the redhead with the rosy cheeks and bright eyes from the tavern; the burly blond Templar with a quick sense of humor; the merchant with dark eyes and skin who set up a booth to sell trinkets at in the courtyard some weekends - and the Venatori kept reminding him of how ugly he was now. How his appearance finally matched his awful personality, how no one would want him anymore. At first, he tried not to listen, knowing that they were trying to get under his skin. But it was impossible to keep all the insults from seeping in, leaving him feeling alone and unwanted as he cried on the dirt floor of his tent. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he heard the quiet camp erupt in chaos. There was the clash of weapons, the buzz of magic, screams of fear and death. Dorian only huddled in on himself more, horrified that somehow the Venatori were going to best the others, and he would be responsible for their deaths and the downfall of the Inquisition. A few times, he could make out Sera yelling taunts at the ‘Venatori gits’ and Blackwall leaping into a fight with a battle cry. 

The battle seemed to last forever, and Dorian remained unseen in the tent. When the noise finally faded, he pushed himself up slightly, mumbling prayers that his friends were safe. There were occasionally the sound of a stray fight, boots scuffing the dirt and blows being traded, but the all-out battle was over.

“Dorian!” Adaar called out to him, over and over again. Sera’s voice soon joined in the search, the voices gradually coming closer. He breathed a sigh of relief - they won, that was good - before he folded in on himself again. When the tent flap opened, he was balled on the ground, knees close to his chest, arms bound behind him. He tried to turn his face away, doesn’t want her to see and … and react, see how ugly and marred he had become. It was an effort, but he rolled over, hiding his face against the ground, “Dorian?”

“Leave me,” Dorian mumbled, wincing when Adaar’s large hand touched his shoulder.

“What did they do, Dorian?” her voice was still soft, understanding, but there was an edge to it. He almost felt sorry for the misery she’d inflict on whoever might still be alive out there. Almost.

“They - they -” Dorian curled tighter in on himself, Adaar’s hands a warm, steady presence on his back. A sob broke free.

“Dorian?” her hand carded through his hair, soothing as he sniffled and snorted, “I’ll have Sera come unlock the restraints, alright?”

He managed to nod, though the idea of more people being there to see his scarred face made his stomach sink. Adaar beckoned Sera over, leaving Blackwall to do a sweep for survivors. There was murmured conversation at the mouth of the tent, then he felt Sera’s calloused hands on the nape of his neck.

“Get you outta this right quick,” Sera murmured to him, knowing how to be soft and kind when she wanted to be. It was a blessing that Sera knew how to pick basically any lock, even complicated Tevene collars, having previously freed a number of slaves they had found in Venatori encampments. Her hands worked quickly, picking the lock efficiently, the collar falling away. 

It was both a relief and a little overwhelming to feel magic spark through him again, veins buzzing with it, head swimming with a high. Sera rubbed soothingly at the irritated flesh for a moment, before dropping her hands down to the shackles around his wrists. They clattered onto the floor a moment later, bested even more easily than the collar. Hands found his shoulder then, massaging out the kinks and helping one stiff arm readjust. It would take sitting up to free the other from beneath him, and Dorian wasn’t sure he could find the energy yet. After he furled and unfurled his fist a few times, he let them help him sit up, making sure they kept him facing towards the shadows of the tent. Again, Sera eased the stiffness from his limbs and helped him move it back into a comfortable place.

“You alright?” Sera asked, and Dorian gave a firm shake of his head. The pair shared a nervous glance, before Sera continued, “We’re gonna kill ‘em all, save one. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Dorian almost laughed, snorted instead to spare Sera’s feelings. It was too late. They had already hurt him enough, and he had the marks left to prove it. He knew they were too late to heal the scars properly, knew they were too deep and severe for that anyway. Every time someone saw him now, they would see the angry scars across his face, see him as a victim who needed to be pitied and coddled. Lips meet the back of his head, and he knew from experience that it was Adaar, and he sobbed again.

“Take your time, Dorian,” Adaar said softly, reassuringly.

Dorian heard the last gurgle of a slit throat before Blackwall peaked into the tent. It was a sick sort of satisfaction to know they were all dead, and Dorian would smile if it didn’t pull at his scars and remind him that they were still there. 

“Got the one tied up, the rest are dead, m’lady,” Blackwall explained, nodding towards an unconscious man tied to a tree. The Warden wasn’t quite Dorian’s friend, thought they had reached sort of comfortable terms, so he stayed at a distance, letting the others do the comforting and consoling. 

“It’s not … It’s not pretty,” Dorian finally mumbled, turning enough to catch Adaar’s gaze, but not yet revealing the scars, which the shadow of the tent still masked. He wouldn’t be able to hide forever, he supposed.

“Whatever it is, Dorian, I’m here,” Adaar said patiently, though her brows were drawn together.

Slowly, Dorian turned towards her, eyes cast downward. The wounds were red and raw, deep scars. He caught the sight of her eyes widening and could see Sera’s hand rise to cover her own mouth in a gasp, before she realized what she’d done and embarrassedly let it drop away. Then, his own hand rose to cover his face.  
“I’m sorry,” Dorian muttered, feeling ugly and ashamed and worthless, just like the Venatori told him he was.

“No, Dorian, no,” Adaar whispered, pulling him into an embrace, “It’s not your fault. Don’t think that.”

Dorian felt numb now, his face still hidden by his hand, even as he was pressed against Adaar’s shoulder. She was murmuring things, stroking his hair and back, telling him things would be okay. It took a long time before Dorian felt okay enough to pull away, eyes dry, hand shaking when it fell away from his face. Adaar helped him to his feet and they moved out of the tent together, Sera hovering behind them. He couldn’t quite make eye contact with Blackwall, but the man said his name softly then let him be. Dorian was grateful for that.

Outside, he cast his eye around the bloody scene. The group of Venatori had been torn apart rather brutally. One man had several fire arrows in him where one would have made do, and Dorian felt a strange sense of pride swelled inside him at how hard his friends had fought for him. His eyes lingered on the man they kept alive, and of course it was the Magister, the man who had done this. Fear jolted through him for a minute, but Adaar and Sera’s presence kept him from losing it. Keeping the leader alive made logical sense, the others just being cogs in the greater plan, ignorant and uncertain of the actual course. Dorian tensed, hand curling into a fist. When Sera’s hand found his, his attention snapped to her.

“Here, your staff,” Adaar stated, removing the stave from her back and handing it over. Dorian nodded his thanks, gripping the weapon tightly, the feel of it under his hand making things start to seem a little more normal. 

“You should eat something, take a potion,” Sera poked him in the ribs, and he shied away slightly, though he allowed her to keep hold of his hand.

“Yes, alright,” Dorian nodded, realizing it had been days since he’d properly eaten, and didn’t have it forced on him. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, but Sera looked worried enough without Dorian arguing about it. 

Sera began to drag him away to where they must have dropped their packs. Dorian was a little unsteady on his feet, but Sera was surprisingly patient, the small elf even catching him when he tripped over nothing. Adaar and Blackwall’s murmured tones carried over to them, and he felt sick knowing they were probably talking about him. Sensing his discomfort, Sera loudly rambled about what food they had left and how they had his pack with them, so he could change into a fresh robe whenever he wanted to. 

It was nice to have the distraction, nice the have Sera chattering in his ear and making him feel like things were normal again. But when he accidentally smiled at her, it pulled on the still-healing marks and it was awful and real and painful again. The noise that escaped him was ugly, which Dorian decided was fitting, and then Sera was in his space, blinking up at him.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Sera stated, gripping him by the shoulders.

“I … I’m hideous,” Dorian hissed. He felt stupid saying it out loud, but he had always taken pride in his appearance, the one thing he could make appear acceptable and perfect when everything else he did was a disappointment. The idea of Bull finding him repulsive made him sob harder, and Dorian threw his hands in front of his face. He hadn’t even actually seen his reflection yet, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He had traced the lines with his tongue more times than he could count, knowing they were deep and jagged, knew how large they were by how they pulled and moved when he flexed his face.

Sera made a dismissive sound, “Have you seen you? You can’t be hideous.” Dorian made a surprised noise, blinking in confusion. She cocked her head slightly, “Makes you a bit rugged, more like.”

Dorian let out a wet laugh. It was the first time he’d laughed in days and days, and it felt strange but good.

“But, Bull —”

“What? Is that what you’re worried about? Shit, Bull collects scars. Sure he’ll think yours are pretty neat. Maker, people are always mooning over that scratch Cullen has on his lip, and he ain’t nearly as pretty as you.”

Dorian shrugged slightly. It hadn’t been the only thing that was worrying him, but he wasn’t sure he could handle Bull’s reaction. Thoughts of Bull telling him how pretty he was, of Bull kissing and touching his unmarred cheeks, both sicken him because Dorian knows these are things he’ll never have again. He had seen how stranger react to wounded Inquisition soldiers, with varying levels of horror and disgust and pity, and he doesn’t think he can handle that. He started to crying anew when the thoughts overwhelmed him, and Sera tucked her blond head under his chin, holding him as he cried weakly.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep was nearly impossible the first night, Dorian struggling to fall asleep, and the Fade was filled with nightmares and echoes of pain when he did. The Demons must have picked up on everything he was afraid of, morphing into Bull wearing a horrified expression as Dorian came through Skyhold, or his father using a collar to snuff out his magic, or into the Magister, who was currently tied up next to the fire, cutting his face open anew. He woke screaming in the middle of the night, hands clawing at his face. The scars were still there, of course, but they weren’t as raw now that he had drank another healing potion. They were smoothed out some, still puckered and fresh, but not sore or slightly bloodied anymore. Dorian wondered if makeup could do anything to hide them from the world. He couldn’t help but keep running his fingers over them, again and again, searing their shapes into his mind.

Adaar murmured something to him, something he couldn’t hear over his desperate sobbing, and then he was being scooped into her lap. He curled up like a child, face pressed into her bosom, clinging to her clothes. He hadn’t felt so powerless since he was a boy, when demons lurked in his dreams and he went running to his mother or, more likely, to his nanny. Sera was watching with wide-eyes, feeling small and useless. The two of them had packed into the tent with Dorian when they set up for the night a decent trek away from the remains of the Venatori camp. They had known better to leave him alone and the three of them had fallen asleep pressed close together.

Blackwall was out by the fire, jaw clenching when he heard Dorian’s yells, expression turning into a snarl when the Venatori’s eyes lit up with dark humor. No one would notice if there was another bruise forming on his jaw come morning, he decided.

After that, Dorian avoided sleep. He knew he was weak and fragile, worrying he would be an easy target for the demons of the Fade to reach right now. The thought terrified him, knowing he could fall completely, and instead he focused on murmuring stories to the women at their request. Sera wanted to hear the one about the Black Divine killing someone at a party again, while Adaar was more interested in tales of Dorian’s childhood adventures, sneaking out of his backyard and into the surrounding fields and vineyards. It helped, to think of different times, when things were simpler or his biggest problem was figuring out how to get mud out of his robes before his father noticed he skipped out on lessons.

When Adaar switched out for her watch, Blackwall joined in, requesting something about one of the more ridiculous parties Dorian had gone to. Blackwall was always an enthusiastic listener, especially when Sera was around, and it’s a comfort that Dorian can still have the pair of them in stitches over one Magister getting drunk enough that he woke up, naked, in the koi pond at one of Maevaris’s estates after an especially wild party.

It all managed to lull Dorian into a less-troubled sleep, one of when he was young and able to duck under a banquet table at some elegant affair of his mother’s while he chased the servant's through the house and out the back door. He had forgotten about the fluffy calico Dorian snuck down to the servant quarters to see, who they kept around to keep out any mice that were brave enough to wander into the Pavus estate. Parties had meant Dorian could have all sorts of freedom as a child, since his parents would rather he wasn’t underfoot. When he woke again, Sera was already awake next to him, dressed and staring at him.

“I had an idea,” she said, looking rather proud.

“That’s a first,” Dorian gently teased back, which gets her to smile.

She rifled through her things for a moment before presenting a scarf, something in bright orange plaidweave that only Sera would wear, “Now, I don’t think you should hide away, but … In case you feel the need, here’s this.”

Dorian blinked down at the cloth for a moment before understanding, slowly reaching out to take it. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead in the color _or_ the pattern, but nothing was normal lately. Instead, he was staring in awe, relief washing through him.

“Thank you,” Dorian mumbled, running his thumb against the fabric. It would be easier to hide away for now, easier to avoid the stares and gasps and wide eyes. He didn’t need pity.

“You’ll look rather like a burglar, yeah?”

“A burglar wouldn’t be caught dead in _orange.”_

Sera snorted, acting offended, “Fine, I’ll just take it back.” It was the sort of teasing they always did, but for a moment Sera looked uncertain if it was the right thing to say. Dorian’s heart felt lighter from it. Sera was treating him like things were _normal,_ like he didn’t have an ugly scar from ear to ear, like he hadn’t been turned into some freak.

“I think not,” he drew it close to his chest, “It’s hardly polite to give a gift and then take it back.”

Sera beamed at him.

 ---

The trek back to Skyhold was rough at times. Dorian filtered between _almost_ acting like to his old self and crippling fear. When they passed anyone else out on the road, Dorian turned his head away or pressed his hand to his mouth again, despite the fact that he had the scarf fitted in place to keep the scars hidden. The others looked worried and concerned whenever he caught them staring, when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It hurt almost as much as the dread he could feel in his chest at the thought of returning to his lover, at the possibility of Bull now finding him repulsive and things between them ending. It ate away at him, despite Adaar and Sera assuring him that it was _not_ going to happen. Their words tangled with what the Venatori had said, and it was something hard to know what to listen to. He should think more of Bull, he told himself as the snowy mountain caps that Skyhold was nestled within appear in the distance. The man had always been kind, and gentle, and patient with him. More so than any of his previous lovers and flings. But, he figured everyone had things they couldn’t stomach, and that idea was enough to leave the anxiety sitting like a stone in Dorian’s chest.

 ---

“Adaar,” Dorian said quietly as they settled down at their camp for the night. The next day would bring them to Skyhold. He was fiddling with his things for a long time, bracing himself for the decision he was making, and pulled out a compact mirror he always brought along. It was his mother’s, peacocks etched into the top, emeralds set into their feathers. His hand was shaking violently.

“Dorian?” she asked, looking concerned. He sighed slightly. She’d been wearing that expression too often lately when talking to him.

“I … I would like to see what I look like, before we return,” Dorian said, jaw set.

“Are you sure?” Adaar had paled slightly, pale gray skin looking almost white.

“Yes, I’d rather see it now than wait and wonder what it looks like,” Dorian nodded. He had thought about it a lot on the road. So far, he somehow managed to avoided looking at anything reflective — Blackwall’s polished shield, pools of clear water, anything that might reveal the glaring lines across his cheeks. He would understand Adaar not wanting to be the one to have to suffer through his inevitable breakdown with him, but he wanted – _needed -_  to know what others were seeing when they look at him, needed to know what he was going to look like to the Bull. His hand raised to the scars, tracing them again. Their paths are already burned into his mind, but he knew that _seeing_ them would be something else entirely.

Adaar nodded slightly, stepping closer to Dorian. The others were by the campfire, poking at the flames and getting dinner ready, oblivious about the exchange going on. She caught Dorian’s hand holding the compact in her own, steadying his trembling digits.

“Take a deep breath,” Adaar advised, voice measured and calm, but her eyes showed hurt and guilt. Dorian listened, breathing in deep and slow, “Ready?”

Dorian nodded. Together, they click open the compact, which Dorian had to adjust slightly to see more than just eyebrow and forehead. All the air rushed from his lungs as if he’d been punched, tears automatically springing into his eyes. He had an idea what to expect from tracing them, knew how far up his face they went and where the scars were especially knotted and jagged, but it couldn’t have prepared him to actually see them. The scar on his right cheek almost reached his ear, jagged, a section branching from it where he’d torn it at some point. The other side wasn’t nearly as long, barely reaching the middle of his cheek. His shaking free hand reached up to trace the lines again, and he let out an unsteady breath.

“Maker,” Dorian hissed, at a loss for anything else to say. Tears were running down his cheeks now, catching on the scars and traveling the groves to leave the taste of salt on his lips.

“It’ll be alright,” Adaar said gently, closing the compact with a little effort as Dorian’s fingers stiffened around it. She leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead as he sagged into her touch, crying gently as she murmured reassurances that he was loved, that Bull would still care about him, that he wasn’t some hideous monster. He still wasn’t sure if he believed her.


	5. Chapter 5

Dread was creeping steadily through Dorian as the fortress comes into sight. It should have been a relief, to be home, to finally get away from the Venatori who was still in tow, and who sometimes grit out insults and reminders of what had been done to Dorian. It always came with swift retribution from the others, of course, but it still hurt, made the wounds burn with the ghost of pain and skin parted with a knife. At some point, someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth, which kept his complaints and insults behind his teeth. Dorian wished they could have just killed him, but they needed to get as much information as possible out of him, and Leliana was sure to know ways to most successfully do so.

Currently, Dorian was fighting to keep his breakfast down. He hadn’t even been able to eat lunch, nerves making his body shake and his stomach sway worse than when he crossed the Waking Sea. The scarf Sera gave him was drawn up already, despite the hours it took to trek through the snowy passages. He’d stolen a few more glances at his scarred face in the compact, when the others wouldn’t catch him wiping tears from his cheeks, though he suspected they knew. He was torn between never looking at his reflection again and wanting to stare at himself until he was desensitized to his gruesome appearance. Suddenly, the bridge was in sight, the horn sounding their return, and Dorian didn’t think he had the strength to go on.

He stopped dead, body trembling. The others slowed and then stopped after a few steps. Adaar glanced between the gates, which were slowly swinging open, and Dorian.

“I-I can’t,” Dorian rasped, voice muffled by the scarf  _ and  _ his hand, which he had raised to further obscure his face. 

“Take your time,” Adaar nodded. It had become her catch-phrase with him as of late, when he had these breakdowns, “I’ll wait with you.”

Dorian nodded slightly, eyes flickering briefly to the Venatori leering at him with some sort of dark satisfaction. Adaar ordered Sera and Blackwall to go on, to get things settled and tell the others they were on their way. Roughly, Blackwall hauled the Venatori forward onto the bridge, practically dragging him by his collar.

Even from here, they could make out the small group gathered, and Dorian’s breath started coming out in quick, shallow gasps. Bull’s form was unmistakable, towering over the others, gray skin gleaming silver in the late afternoon sun, and Dorian turned away. He listened to Sera and Blackwall trudge across the bridge, their voices carrying for some distance, until even their indistinct murmuring was gone. Adaar moved to block his view of the gates when Dorian kept staring after them, the weight in his chest feeling heavier and heavier.

“Dorian, it’s alright. Bull’s not going to think of you any differently,” Adaar assured for what must be the hundredth time.

“You can’t know that,” Dorian shrilled, then fell silent, worried his voice would echo to the others. He could occasionally catch tidbits of sound on the wind, but it was an illogical concern. He dropped to a low growl, “You can’t tell me that.”

“Dorian, the Iron Bull cares about you very much.”

Tears smarted Dorian eyes, and he shook his head aggressively, “What if he … What if …” 

_ What if he doesn’t want me anymore? What if he looks at me with horror and pity now? What if, what if, what if —  _

“-Then he’s not worth your affection.”

Adaar said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that his mouth fell open behind his scarf and he wasn’t sure if he could even argue with her. Dorian drew in a sharp breath. 

“Bull’s entirely worthy. No one else …” his mind quickly filled with things. No one else was as patient with him. No one else was as kind to him. No one else made him feel the way Bull did, like there was a possibility of a good future beyond all this end of the world nonsense. Adaar smiled, slow and gentle.

“Bull is not a cruel man. He’s not going to withdraw his affections because you have some battle scars. Knowing him, might turn him on a bit,” Adaar murmured, ruffling Dorian’s hair affectionately. The panic wasn't completely gone, the edge of frenzy still thumping through his veins, but he nodded. Bull was kind - was quite possibly the kindest person Dorian knew. Dorian should not have been thinking so little of him, “Come on, then.”

Adaar linked arms with him and they started forward at a steady, unhurried pace. Dorian noticed the crowd had thinned out considerably since Dorian had last looked, probably from when Sera and Blackwall made their way through, and Dorian thanked them for that. His eyes darted around nervously, still not entirely ready to face the Bull. Thank goodness for the scarf from Sera, or he would have never been able to walk right through the front gates like this. When he glanced at Bull before his eyes anxiously moved on, he noticed the man looked tired and stressed, but relieved. As soon as Dorian had passed through the gates, Bull was wrapping his arms around him, Dorian’s feet leaving the ground. 

“Bull!” Dorian exclaimed in surprise, gripping his shoulders tightly. It was a grander welcome than he had been expecting and it caught him off-guard.

“Sorry, but — Shit, I was so worried, Dorian,” Bull set Dorian back on the ground, turning his face into Dorian’s hair. Warmth flooded Dorian’s system at the gesture, relieved. Bull didn’t make comment on the scarf, either, so Dorian slumped against his chest.

“Bull,” Dorian breathed out, pressing his forehead to into the swell of Bull’s pectoral. The smell of metal and musk and sweat didn’t even bother him, it was too entirely  _ Bull,  _ which made it comforting instead _.  _ His grip tightened on Bull’s side, nails biting into his lover’s skin. Bull felt Dorian begin to tremble in his grip, and quickly pressed soothing kisses into his hair.

“Hey, I’ve got you, big guy,” Bull whispered to him, and Dorian pressed his face more firmly against Bull’s chest.

Once Dorian relaxed enough to walk, Bull led them to a nearby flight of steps to take the path around the battlements to the Iron Bull’s quarters. It was a small miracle, not to have to go through the tavern to get there. They bid farewell to Adaar, who grabbed them both in one great hug before she let them leave. Dorian leaned into Bull, who was as always a steady, sturdy force, and let the bigger man move them both up the stairs. The battlements were empty, another blessing. Once in the room, he guided Dorian into the plush armchair near the fire before he latched the pair of doors to his quarters.

“Dorian,” Bull murmured, kneeling before him. Like this, they were at eye-level, and it made Dorian worry about Bull’s bad knee. Dorian’s chin dropped to his chest, eyes cast downward to his knees. Bull had been so soft and patient and gentle with him, he felt guilty for doubting him before, for doubting him  _ now. _

There was still fear in his chest at the thought of removing the scarf, as much as he wanted to throw his arms around the man and kiss him properly, wanted to be rid of the blasted thing, itchy and hot and stuffy after long. 

“Adaar said they told you everything,” Dorian croaked, and Bull scooped up both of Dorian’s hands in one of his own. They were warm and steady and reassuring, enveloping Dorian’s smaller digits, making him feel oddly safe. Bull’s other hand trailed up to Dorian’s shoulder, kneading at the tense muscle there. 

“Yeah,” Bull nodded, anger churning in his green eye as he kept it trained on Dorian’s face, “Adaar kept in contact. When you went missing — Fuck, I didn’t know what to do. Krem practically tied me to the chair in the tavern, thinking I’d run off and do something stupid to get you back. Kadan, I’d be lost without you.”

Dorian nodded slightly, swallowing around a lump in his throat, tears beginning to blur his vision. Bull squeezed his hand too-hard for a moment, before reining back his reaction and running his thumb across Dorian’s knuckles.

“And then, when they found you, I was so relieved. They told me what the fuckin’ Venatori did to you.” 

It came out as a pained growl and Dorian winced slightly out of strange mix of guilt and sympathy. Almost hesitantly, Bull rose a hand up to cup Dorian’s cheek. For a moment, Dorian flinched away, before allowing his cheek to settle on the Bull’s hand. The callouses of Bull’s hand caught on the fabric, and Dorian imagined the rough skin against his cheek instead. Dorian’s throat worked, thinking about how Bull wouldn’t see the same face beneath the scarf.

“Dorian, I love you for more than your good looks,” Bull rumbled, voice low and steady and true. Dorian’s eyes went wide as a strangled noise made its way out of Dorian’s mouth.  _ Love,  _ what a mess.

Dorian raised his eyes then, locking them with Bull’s gaze for the first time since returning. Bull looked so sincere, so affectionate, that the force of his regard caused tears to slide down Dorian’s face. Bull took one of Dorian’s hands and brought it up to his lips, tracing the scars that cut through them. Dorian’s breath hitched for a moment. 

“They show all we’ve been through, all the bad shit we survived,” Bull said gently.

Dorian gave a reluctant nod of his head, fingers touching the familiar grooves on Bull’s face, “They’re rather handsome on you. Very fitting for a rugged Qunari warrior, really. It’s just … I’ve always been pretty. It’s terribly vain, I-I know—” 

“You’ll always be beautiful, Dorian.”

Hesitantly, Dorian nodded again. He pulled his hand away, touched Sera’s scarf around his face.

“There’s no hurry, Kadan. You take all the time you need,” Bull reassured, not wanting Dorian to feel pressured into doing anything before he was comfortable. He was never self-conscious of his own scars, he remembered marveling over the first he had collected on his legs from falling into thickets as a kid, a few pale marks still lingering all theses years later. But, he could imagine why it was difficult for Dorian, bred to be perfect, told he was pretty his entire life, now warring with the idea of being marred and still beautiful. 

“I … I want to show you.”

Dorian pulled the scarf down slowly, revealed the sharp scars on either side of his face. His eyes were focused slightly above the Bull now, between his horns, worried the initial reaction was going to hurt. Sadness registered in Bull’s eye for a moment, not the pity or disgust he feared, but something that showed just how concerned Bull was about the pain Dorian must have gone through, concerned for the pain he was still going through. 

Slowly, Bull reached out to cup Dorian’s cheek again. It gave Dorian the chance to move away if he wasn’t ready, but Dorian craved the touch. Bull cradled his jaw, running a gentle finger against a bit of stubble on his cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” Bull asked softly after a moment.

“You … want to?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You … You may.”

Bull leaned forward, Dorian parting his knees as best he could to let Bull crowd farther into his space. The kiss was chaste but loving, lingering and warm. Everything Dorian was worried he was going to lose. When Bull drew away, a weak sob rose from Dorian, tears falling in earnest now.

“I’ve got you,” Bull moved his hand to stroke gently at Dorian’s chin. He kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips again. He brushed his lips against against each cheek, quick pecks, and Dorian sobbed harder, not because he was upset, but because he was terribly relieved.

“I’m not horrid and ugly and awful?” Dorian asked, sniffling.

“No, you could never be any of those things,” Bull pressed their foreheads together, staring intently into Dorian’s eyes. The mage scrambled to grab hold of Bull’s shoulders, still hiccuping, but a sense of relief and peace washed over him. The pain and worry wasn’t gone, but Bull made it easier, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Hope you enjoyed the angst. ;)
> 
> Catch up with me here: thekingofcarrotflower.tumblr.com


End file.
